


Fool Me Twice

by Moe64



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Canon-Typical Violence, Dick Grayson is Robin, Jason Todd is Robin, Tim Drake is Robin, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:08:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23338135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moe64/pseuds/Moe64
Summary: There are two Jokers in Gotham City and one Batman. It's like the start to a twisted joke. And here's the punchline: there are no Robins.And there never will be. If this new Joker has anything to say about it.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Tim Drake & Jason Todd
Comments: 16
Kudos: 48





	1. The Bug

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters. They have been borrowed for the purpose of entertainment and I may or may not return them unharmed.
> 
> Updates to this story will be inconsistent at best but hopefully every other week, though I will get busy with the end of the semester. I've had this idea rattling around in my head for a while and I just decided to run with it. Probably because I have no self control. But maybe also hopefully because other people will find it interesting.
> 
> Chapter title is in reference to a poker term. Traditionally, in five-card draw, the joker is played as a special type of wild card referred to as a 'Bug.'

"You wanna hear a story that'll twist your guts?"  


"Happened to a friend of mine. His name is . . . **Robin**."  


"The boy wonder. The _wonder_ is that he lived to see puberty. He hangs out with that big scary **Batman** nutjob they let run wild back in Gotham. "  


"The freak puts this poor kid in harm's way _every night_. Makes 'im go unarmed against Gotham's roughest and toughest."  


"Hoods. Skells. Creeps. Killers."  


"He's out there with the worst of them -"  


"- when he _should_ be doing his homework."  


"And this mental case he has for a role model? This is _mentoring_?"  


"This lunatic is a few punch lines short of a sitcom. The _dangers_ he exposes this kid to."  


"Not to mention his own rage issues."  


"Is this a home for a child?"  


"The late nights?"  


"The violence?"  


"I mean, shouldn't Janet Reno hear about this?" 

"You're concerned for this . . . Robin's welfare?"

"No . . . _I_ want to be the one to **kill** him." 

  


* * *

  


The Joker is in Arkham. 

Bruce Wayne knows this, but he also knows that one of the things that makes a good detective is the refusal to back away from any possibility that could lead to the truth. 

And the truth should be easy in this case. 

The Joker killed two people this morning and tried to kill a third. According to a first-hand account of the murders, witnessed by the victims’ son, the Joker tortured the couple with a blowtorch, pumped them full of Joker venom, and then mercifully ended their suffering. He made the boy watch. 

The crime was certainly despicable enough to be the Joker. It could be a copycat, but the smiles etched on the faces of the bodies were enough to let Bruce put that theory on the backburner, if not to dismiss it entirely. It could have been a visual hallucination, the real culprit Scarecrow or Poison Ivy, or any number of Gotham rogues currently at large who have an affinity for toxins. But the boy’s blood had come back clear. 

The boy could be lying. But Bruce isn’t ready to consider that possibility. 

Occam’s Razor. It’s the Joker. 

But the Joker is in Arkham. 

Normally, Bruce wouldn’t rely on such assurance. He certainly hadn’t at first, even as he swung through the crystal glass window of a small townhouse in the Upper East Side, knocking a toy revolver from the hand of a man dressed in purple, green hair flashing on his head, caught mid-laugh as he held the barrel of the gun to the boy’s head and played Russian Roulette. An eerie cackle erupted from the man every time the boy had flinched. 

If Batman hadn’t been so preoccupied making sure the boy was okay, not dosed with any toxins, he might have noticed the bomb sooner, ticking away in the fireplace, green letters flashing on blackened brick. 

Instead, Bruce barely managed to untie the boy from the chair, wrap him in Batman's thick cape, and flee from the house, red hot flames licking his back from the explosion. 

And the Joker got away. 

But no. He was still at Arkham. Bruce knows this because he is staring at the clown, laughing maniacally in a white straight jacket, impossibly wide grin stretching across his too-pale face. 

“Something the matter Batsie?” the clown asks, barring his teeth in a smile. 

“Sir, he’s been here all day,” the guard beside Batman insists for the fifth time in as many minutes. “I’ve been outside his cell the whole time,” the officer repeats. 

Bruce is inclined to believe him. Officer Sousa is young, twenty-eight last month, with no family save a grandmother in Paraguay. His finances were relatively good, and he was hired to Arkham as a part of the Safe City Initiation that Wayne Enterprise helped fund two years ago in an attempt to flush the prisons and police of corruption, a project that appeared to be tentatively successful. 

“You never come just to visit me anymore,” Joker is pouting, and Batman tries to tune him out. 

The sharp smell of the strange chemical used to scrub the inside of the decrepit walls that encase the asylum has settled into Bruce nose and he has to forcibly restrain himself from trying to shake it off or wipe it away. It’s distracting, just like everything else in this place. The dark looming walls, steel on iron on rebar on brick, layer and layer built and rebuilt after copious escapes and attempts. While the outer walls of the asylum corrode against the salty ocean air, crack to the forces of nature that creep up the decaying sides, crumble against the beating wind, the inner shell is countlessly reinforced and upgraded and modified. It was a leaky dam, but the levy held. 

Occam’s Razor. 

The Joker didn’t break out of Arkham. 

Visual analysis of the bodies indicates Joker venom, a chemical test will confirm. A copycat would need inside information for the formula and it’s unlikely the Joker would be willing to part with the information. Torturing a boy and killing his parents isn’t Poison Ivy’s M.O. and the Scarecrow is more likely to inflict the perception of fear with his toxins, not generate it naturally through torture. 

The boy’s blood had come back clean and Bruce will check his own when he gets back to the Cave. But he knows what he saw. What he saw in the boy’s eyes. 

This was no hallucination and the boy was not lying. 

So, what was the truth? 

“A couple was murdered this morning,” Batman says, rough voice disguising any emotion. Joker’s grin widens. 

“Ooh, a story,” he says. “Hold on, let me get the popcorn.” 

“Tortured to death in front of their sixteen-year-old son, who survived.” 

The Joker sticks his lower lip out and frowns. “Spoiler warning, Batsie. Don’t give away the ending.” 

“They were injected with Joker venom.” 

The grin hardens dangerously. “Now there’s a real twist.” 

  


* * *

  


The sun has long since fallen below the murky Gotham horizon by the time Batman finally makes his way to Gotham General. He had spent the remainder of the day in the Cave, running analysis, waiting on tests, collecting more evidence, more information, more clues. A severe look from Alfred had cut any additional excuses from his lips and, still in denial about the dread bubbling in his stomach, Batman slips now from the roof of the aged downtown building and into the intensive care unit on the fourteenth floor. 

What he needed now was answers. And there was only one place he was likely to find them. 

Commissioner Jim Gordon waits in the boy’s hospital room, leaning against the wall cattycorner to the door, eyes flashing every so often to the only window in the space, while two officers watch the silent and vacant hallway outside. The older man taps his fingers impatiently on his leg, excess energy a combined side effect of the hospital’s No Smoking policy and the tension that creeps into his shoulders as his mind has nothing to do but await the conversation about to happen. 

He watches the window with palpable dread. 

Jim jumps when Batman slides from the shadows. 

“Jesus,” the older man yelps when his eyes catch the faint swish of Batman’s cape as he moves forward into the moonlight that pours through the glass and into the room. It’s quiet except the steady beat of the boy’s heart monitor. 

“What do you have?” Batman asks, eyes decidedly _not_ on the young face of the small boy in the corner, his even breathing a tell-tale sign of chemically induced sleep. Frustration and relief flicker in Batman’s chest with equal ferity as he realizes he won’t be able to interview the boy tonight, but he pushes the emotions down, white lenses fixing on Jim. The older man sighs and holds out a manila folder. Batman takes it with care. 

“Benjamin and Margaret Lauder,” Jim says, even as Batman reads their names on the first page. “By all means a normal couple. She was a teacher at Elmont Elementary and he worked policy for Gotham’s Mathematica branch. Never so much as a parking ticket between them.” 

“Hnn,” Bruce grunts, eyeing the biographies Jim provided suspiciously. Jim rolls his eyes. 

“But I’m sure you’ll double check that,” the older man grumbles to himself. Bruce scans through the rest of the file quickly, room falling silent as he flips through the few remaining pages. Eventually, he glances up. Jim doesn’t meet his eyes. 

“And the boy?” Batman finally asks, still refusing to look over. Jim shifts back and forth on his feet before running a hand through his graying hair. 

“Shit,” he says. “Watched the whole thing according to my men. Was pretty damn shaken up about it. Said the bastard wanted him to watch it,” Jim is shaking his head. “Second time the kid has had to watch his parents die.” 

Batman looks up at that. “Second?” he asks. Jim just sighs. 

“Lauders adopted him about three years ago,” Jim says nodding to the folder Batman has in his hand. “Watched his parents die in some trapeze act gone wrong before that.” Jim glances over at the sleeping boy. “Poor kid.” 

Batman finally looks over at the child, his light brown skin catching pale in the moonlight. His face looks far younger than sixteen as he sleeps, tension pulled from his skin. 

Batman turns to go. 

“There’s something else,” Jim says suddenly, his own eyes trained on the boy. Batman pauses. “He said the Joker called him something. Something only his mom used to call him growing up,” Jim says gruffly. Jim didn’t know what to make of this piece of information. It seemed too coincidental, too random. But he knew that Batman needed it. 

“He said the Joker called him Robin.” 

Silence meets Jim’s words and after a seconds pause, he turns away from the boy and back toward the room, only to find empty air greeting him. 

Batman is already gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The opening dialog is directly taken from Robin (1993) Issue #85. It's a short issue written from Joker's perspective about how he realized there were three different Robins. It's actually a pretty interesting issue. He's talking to a cockroach the entire time. You know . . . a bug.
> 
> Also, Janet Reno was the Attorney General at the time this issue was published.


	2. The Thief

If there’s one thing that Jason Todd has learned in his eleven short miserable years of existence, it’s that there are an infinite number of ways the universe can fuck you over and just when he thinks he’s hit his limit, thinks that there are no more possible ways to get screwed, the universe lets him pry open the hood on a 1966 Chrysler, which by all means should have a 426 Street Hemi with dual inline AFB carbs and instead finds himself staring at a modified Renault not worth the grease on his sneakers. 

Shit. 

He was going to be under. _Again_. 

Jason slams the hood of the car shut. At this point, it would be embarrassing more than anything to try and bring a Renault to the Delancey’s and pass it off as the rest of his quota for the week. Which only means he’s going to owe them double next time. 

Jason resists the urge to groan into his hands. No one ever gets out from under the Delancey’s but there was little to complain about. He _knew_ what he was getting into when he decided to run for them. At ten, he was cute enough to get spare change and pass under the eye of the more violent gangs in the area. At eleven he had to start taking care of himself. 

The two wallets he grabs on the way over to Delancey’s garage do little to quell the worry bubbling in his stomach about how he’s going to float himself for a week if he decides to take the cut from his pay and not go into even more debt. Irrationally, Jason wants to take a tire iron to whoever installed that Renault. It’s not even just the fact that he’s probably going to have to skip meals for the next week. 

It was just straight _wrong_. Disrespectful. There’s no reason _that_ engine should be in _that_ car. 

Jason’s still wallowing in self-pity as he sulks up to the back entrance of the garage, sun falling below the horizon in the distance, feet dragging on broken asphalt and sneakers managing to kick every rock in sight. Part of him, the part of him that’s still a child screaming over his mom’s unmoving body, shaking her and crying, begging that she just wake up, _wake up_ , yells that this is all so unfair. That he shouldn’t have to be worrying about debt and finding his next meal and where he’s going to sleep tonight – not at eleven. He should be in school, complaining about homework or some crap. He should be – shit, he should be in sixth grade now, shouldn’t he? Middle school. His mom had registered him for the charter school lottery system in the hope that he would be able to go to some ritzy academy on the east side. Did his number ever come up? 

Jason almost snorts at the prospect. Somehow, the idea of him winning anything is enough to crack a smile out of the young boy. 

“Jase!” A voice calls, startling Jason from his thoughts. He whips around, fists already coming up even though the voice sparks a memory in the back of his mind. 

“Woah!” Adam says, arms flying up, palm open in peace sign at Jason’s raised fists. “Didn’t mean to startle ya,” the older boy says with a sly grin. At fourteen, Adam has already hit his middle school growth spurt and has several inches on Jason, who, much to the younger boy’s chagrin, was always short for his age anyways. It’s that height that still has Jason flinching backwards even as his brain recognizes Adam and lets his fists drop a fraction of an inch. 

Jason relaxes his stance and manages a snort. “You didn’t _startle_ me,” he shoots back automatically. “I’m just still not sure if I’m ready to forgive you for taking my squat at the docks,” he snaps. He’s actually long since forgiven Adam for stealing the shanty abandoned port station where he spent the better part of a month last year trying to keep warm. Mostly because he’d found a far better place to stay not two days later that had not only four walls and a roof, but a damn heater. A heater. He was living like a king until the electric company finally realized their mistake and shut the thing off. Still. Best three months of his life. 

Adam just grins. “Oh, you’ll forgive me for it,” he says evasively, and Jason narrows his eyes. Adam jerks his head to the garage. “You goin’ in?” 

Jason nods uneasily. Adam seems . . . happy. Which is wrong in so many ways but mostly because it makes unease bubble in Jason’s gut. Something is seriously _wrong_. 

“Me too. Come in with me?” Adam asks and there is a little hesitancy in his voice, a quiver that Jason wouldn’t have detected if he wasn’t looking for it but the sound of it lets him relax. Adam is nervous about something. Maybe the smiles were just an overcompensation or something. Adam’s face isn’t giving anything away now so Jason just shrugs. 

“Sure,” he says following the older boy up the steps and into the floor of the garage. 

Jason isn’t sure what it is about Delancey’s garage that always puts him at ease, even if he is coming in a few parts short of his weekly quota for the brothers. Maybe it’s the way it’s always bustling, always full of _someone_ doing _something_. Maybe it’s the friendly smile of Harold the mechanic, who will always teach Jason something if the younger boy has the time and patience to stick around and learn. Maybe it’s just the smell of grease and oil and molten metal that screams hard work, if not honest work, but Jason doesn’t start feeling uneasy until Adam raps on the door to Mark Delancey’s office and pokes his head in and says, “Me and Jason are here for our take.” 

Mark doesn’t even look up from the papers he’s reading over as he waves them in. He was shorter than his brother, but that was like saying the second tallest mountain was an easy climb. He was still a brute of a man, even if he spent most of his time hunched over this very desk, crunching numbers while his brother Dave worked the floor of the main store, a charming smile that Mark could never master swindling customers into opening their wallets. And sometimes their legs. 

“You got anything for me, Jason?” the man asks, voice gruff and he signs the bottom of the paper before finally looking up at the two boys, eyebrow raised expectantly. Jason gulps. 

“Some spark plugs,” Jason says, dropping the bag on Delancey’s desk and managing to avoid the older man’s severe gaze. He hears his sigh though. 

“Platinum?” he asks and Jason nods jerkily, eyes flashing up and wondering if he’ll get off without a lecture this week. There’s something tired in Delancey’s eyes and Jason lets himself feel a flicker of hope before a hard look settles over the older man’s face. 

“I assume I’ll add this to your tab?” the man asks coolly and before Jason can think about it, he shakes his head. 

“I’ll take the cut,” he manages. _Crap_. That means a long and hunger filled week while he scrambles to make quota and if he gets caught _again_ for stealing the court is definitely going to throw his ass in juvie this time. 

“This is the second time this month, Jason,” Delancey says, glare severe enough that Jason can’t look away. He _knew_ that. Of course, he knew that. But it was winter and traffic in the city had slowed and it seemed like every day he went out it was getting harder and harder to find scraps. Jason opens his mouth, still unsure about what he is about to say. 

“Mr. Delancey, sir?” Adam cuts in and Jason’s eyes fly to the older boy, mouth now dropping into a gape. Did he just – did he _cut_ in? Jason has a bad feeling he’s about to watch Adam get his ass whooped and sure, he doesn’t _like_ the older boy, but he doesn’t want to see him get beat up. 

“I’m here for my pay too,” he continues, and Jason’s eyes grow wide. What the hell is Adam doing? Does he have a death wish? Is that why he asked Jason to come in with him? So Delancey would think the two planned this and kill both of them, Adam’s last act of defiance spent to screw Jason over because why the hell not? Jason turns back to Delancey, mouth open to deny all ties to Adam, hell he’s prepared to swear on a bible he’s never seen this boy in his life, before he snaps his teeth shut at the look on Delancey’s face. 

Is he . . . amused? 

What. The. Hell. 

Delancey actually laughs. “I’m sure you are,” he says, rolling his eyes and reaching under his desk. “I don’t know how you did it, kid, but if you come across anything like that again, we’re always buyin’,” Delancey says and pulls out a stack of cash bigger than anything Jason’s ever seen, throwing it on his desk. Jason eyes bugger. 

Adam reaches forward and grabs it, like the money is for him. _What the hell_. 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” the older boy says with a smile. Jason’s brain, stuck in mollasses before, finally spins free and he latches on to the only explanation for the scene playing out before him, unreasonable and impossible as it may be. 

Adam just paid back his debt. He _got out_ from under the Delancey’s. He got out and, if the stack of cash the older boy now grips tightly in his hands is any indication, then some. 

What. The. Hell. 

Jason doesn’t even realize he’s following Adam out of the garage until the cool night air hits him and Adam turns to him with a blazing smile. 

“So, what do ya think?” he asks with a mischievous grin. Jason’s eyebrows shoot up. 

“I think you’re crazier than a dog in a hubcap factory,” he finally says, and a small smile grows across his face. It’s maybe a little crazy, a little irrational, hell – he doesn’t even really _like_ Adam – but he’s fucking happy that the older boy paid off his debt. Maybe it’s a little selfish too. It gives Jason something he hasn’t had in a long time. Hope. That maybe he could do it too. Adam’s next words take his breath away. 

“You gonna ask me how I did it?” the older boy says, shit eating grin still not leaving his face. Jason narrows his eyes, certain this is the lead in to, at best, a joke, at worst, the perfect insult that Adam can tell all his older friends about later and will leave Jason with a nickname he can’t get rid of. 

“How’d you do it?” Jason asks after some calculated thought. He _really_ doesn’t expect the answer he gets. 

“There’s a warehouse, off K and Market. Some rich schmooze is storing his classics in there with all the security of prick taking a dump in a public restroom. Has a bolt on the door. That’s it.” 

“What do you mean ‘has?’” Jason asks, voice going soft. Adam’s grin widens. 

“I mean _has_ , Jase. Market and K. You can’t miss it.” 

He’s always liked Adam. 

  


* * *

  


Jason doesn’t make the trip that night. Or the next night. Nor the one after that. It isn’t until the money from the spark plugs and the custom tires he nicked earlier in the week runs out and the hunger truly settles into his stomach that he catches the bus into Coventry and makes his way down Market Street, hood up and head down, not quite sure why he’s so ashamed to be driven to this point. 

When Adam first gave him the tip, all Jason could think about was breaking into this stupid warehouse and snatching whatever fancy parts this guy was dumb enough to leave around an empty depository in the crime capital of the world. Really, it’s like the guy was _asking_ to be robbed. And maybe Adam felt like he owed him, for taking his place at the docks. For accidentally forgetting to give him credit that one time the two of them boosted a 1994 Lexus LS. For somehow starting the rumor that Jason had _crashed_ the 1994 Lexus LS which was admittedly funny when it was only the other boys teasing him about not being able to reach the peddles but had become decidedly less so when the Delancey’s got wind of it and dragged Jason into their office to ask him why he was out joy riding potential merchandise. 

But Adam didn’t _owe_ him. Jason had been under the Delancey’s thumbs for too long to sit easy with the idea that someone else felt they had a debt to him that needed to be repaid. 

And the idea that Adam gave him the tip out of the goodness of his heart was too absurd to even be considered. Had he taken pity on Jason? 

The thought makes bile rise in Jason’s throat, but the younger boy has to admit that’s the most likely option. So, what? Adam had seen Delancey about to rip Jason a new one for being under again and now, with cash under his belt and freedom in his step, he thought he was high and mighty enough to be handing out charity? 

Jason grits his teeth as he passes L street and sees a warehouse looming in the distance. Unmissable. Just like Adam had said it would be. 

Jason wants to turn back. He’s already spent the rest of his money on the bus ride up here and either way he was going to have walk home. He didn’t _really_ want to be lugging classic engines or fancy tires halfway across Gotham, especially at night but . . . _dammit_. 

He was hungry. 

There’s no way he can pickpocket enough to float himself the rest of the week. He’s tired of running for the Delancey’s. If he comes in short again the next lecture won’t be with words – it will be with fists. And maybe . . . maybe Jason’s number has just come up. 

Maybe it’s his turn to get lucky. 

He pops the lock on the warehouse doors and eases them open, slipping inside. He walks to the middle of the storehouse as his eyes adjust to the room in front of him. He wants to laugh. 

Empty. Fucking empty. 

So that’s what this was. Just another little joke for Adam. Ha ha. Very funny. 

Just as he thinks this, just as a smile grows on his face and short miserable breath expels from his lips, the voices in his head begin to echo on the walls around him. A shiver runs down Jason’s spine and his head snaps up. 

The type of demented laugher that makes the underside of Jason’s skin itch and will haunt his dreams for the rest of his life – however long that turns out to be – cracks through the cold evening air and sound of metal scraping concrete draws closer as Jason’s heart lurches in his throat. 

He never liked Adam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to do _a lot_ of research about cars to write this chapter and am entirely not confident that I have anything accurate so please do not use this in reference to anything car related.
> 
> Also, please never expect chapters to come out this fast in the future, I just had a free weekend and figured I would finishing editing this one (I swear I _do_ actually edit. Sometimes).


	3. The Acrobat

The filtered air of the hospital pumps the recovery ward full of a dry artificial cleanliness that is so different from the usual dank fog that generally settles over the rest of Gotham. Perhaps the change in atmosphere should be a welcome one. The wind outside always tastes of salt and smoke but while the chemically infused air reeks of health and sanitation, it also burns the tip of Bruce’s tongue. 

Dick Grayson is waiting for him. 

Earlier that day, Bruce Wayne had absolutely insisted to a typically unimpressed Alfred that he was most certainly _not_ avoiding talking to the boy. He was simply tangentially busy reading through the police reports and interviews, and trying, ultimately in vain, to track down to where this copycat Joker had gone after his attack the morning prior. Just as he had been tangentially busy the day before trying to figure out how the Joker had somehow broken out of and then back into Arkham Asylum. There were enough loose strings attached to this case for Alfred to knit a blanket – would he be so inclined. The subtle hints that had become, over the course of a day, dry unflinching commentary on his ability to procrastinate indicated perfectly well what Alfred thought of Bruce’s lingering obsession with these loose strings and while he had long since become immune to Alfred’s passive aggressive methods, when the sun hit the horizon for the second time after Margaret and Benjamin Lauder were killed, Bruce knew he had avoided the interview long enough. 

Apparently, Dick Grayson was similarly aware. 

The boy was sitting upright in his hospital bed, intricately folding what Bruce assumed was a school supplied worksheet, the questions cut off in ways that made it impossible for him to read and large empty blank spaces with absolutely no answers written within. There was a backpack by the foot of his bed that looked untouched except the single removed paper and a pencil that was across the room, on the floor, beneath a faint graphite mark midway up the far wall, and tucked into the corner, likely the result of someone hurling it and then not bothering to retrieve it. 

The boy continues folding as Batman slips into the room. 

“I already told the police what happened,” he says without looking up and there is a certain emptiness to his voice that draws Bruce closer. Similar to the mechanical patience by which he folds, creases, and then twists the paper. Bruce was never any good at Origami. 

“What are you making?” he asks, trying to keep his voice smooth, and not the rough growl he usually directs at criminals. Dick’s hands finally still but the boy doesn’t look up. After a beat, he flips the paper and folds in another small triangle. 

“Everything’s in whatever report that officer made. I don’t have anything more to say,” Dick says, and his voice is harder now, less hollow but more like an egg, the shell firm and delicate, a thin protection all too easy to crack. Bruce watches the boy’s hands more and they quiver lightly. 

“I’ve never been good at Origami myself,” Bruce confesses, sitting in the doctor chair near Dick’s bedside. Truthfully, Bruce had never particularly cared to try. Origami was an afternoon lesson in sixth grade for him, crumpled paper only generously resembling a bird while the girl across the table muffled laughter with her hand and produced a flock of sharply creased swans. He never truly bothered with the art form after that. 

Dick’s hands have stopped moving again and Bruce can make out pointed triangles that he assumes will eventually become legs but nothing more from the intricately lain square that rests atop them. 

“Why are you here?” And Dick’s voice is now a blade, sharp and cutting and wielded wildly. His eyes finally flicker up to Bruce. “Why are you not out _there_? Finding him?” 

The accusation isn’t exactly a novel one for Bruce. He’s gotten a variety of receptions over the years: suspicion, joy, relief, hopelessness. Anger is hardly a new one. Still, it gives Bruce pause. There _is_ anger in the boy’s voice, but the words are brandished as a weapon rather than a shield. He is asking something more with this question, and Bruce can hear the underlying query. It’s the same question he asked at the mouth of a desolate alley to a detective he knows now felt just as hopeless as he did. It was both a question that had no answer and yet was always given the same one. 

“I’m going to find the man who did this, Dick,” Bruce says, allowing the hardness to seep into his voice so he speaks with absolute finality on the subject. He would. If it was the last thing he did. 

Dick’s lips twist in a funny way and he curls two of the folds on the paper to approximate large ears. 

“Do you know who Tony Zucco is, sir?” Dick asks and Bruce isn’t sure which part of the questions throws him more: the sudden change in topic, or the formal address at the end. 

“No,” he replies blankly, not wanting to give away his confusion. Was it possible Dick already knew the name of his assailant but had held out on the information in front of the police? 

Dick’s mouth twists even more at the words and while his first expression might have generously been called a smile, it looks now like he holds something sour in his mouth. 

“Maybe you should find out before you go promising things like that,” Dick says and he opens the bottom fold on his paper and pops it out, standing up the form that has now taken the shape of an animal Bruce recognizes. It’s an elephant. Dick stares at the worksheet. 

Bruce considers pressing the topic of Tony Zucco but the lack of information would put him at a considerable disadvantage in any further conversation and something inside Bruce that he has learned to trust says that it isn’t the most relevant piece of information he could gain from this interrogation. He lets the topic drop and bookmarks it for later research. 

“I know this is hard Dick, but I need to ask you a couple of questions about what happened yesterday morning,” Bruce says instead, watching as Dick gently holds the Origami elephant in front of him. 

Truthfully, Dick was right. He had already told his story to the officer and the interview notes plus the recording Gordon had supplied were well sufficient for Bruce to get a picture of what had transpired leading up to attack. The medical examiner’s notes on the bodies were enough for Bruce to understand what transpired during it. 

Dick doesn’t respond so Bruce continues. 

“Did the . . . Joker say anything to you during it all?” Bruce asks, deciding not to share the theory that this could possibly not be the Joker to his sixteen-year-old victim. It wouldn’t help anything. Dick still won’t look up at him. 

“Yeah,” the boy shrugs. “A lot of things.” There are so many things that _a lot of things_ could mean and Bruce hates that he has to assume the worst. 

“Did anything stand out to you?” Bruce asks calmly and Dick is tracing the elephant’s delicate trunk with one finger. 

“He called me Robin,” another stiff shrug. “But I told the officers that.” 

“Your mother used to call you Robin?” Bruce asks and while Jim had told him this, Bruce wasn’t sure yet what to do with the information. It also wasn’t quite what he was looking for. 

“Not Maggie,” Dick says. “My mom.” 

Bruce nods. There’s a non-zero chance that it could be a coincidence, but Bruce doesn’t think it was. Perhaps there was a connection there. Clowns and circuses weren’t _unrelated_. 

“Did he say anything else?” Bruce asks. He had already planned to do more research into Haly’s Circus, but he’d been mostly preoccupied since hunting down possible Joker hideouts – which of course was moot if this was a copycat. Maybe the circus should move up in priority. 

Dick chews his lip. “He said I deserved this. That I was always causing him trouble. He sang some weird song. Said no one would save me . . . _this time_. He talked a bunch of nonsense. I don’t know. He’s _crazy _,” Dick’s eyes shoot up to his now and the boy glares at him, as if daring Bruce to contradict what he said. Bruce doesn’t refute it. Dick isn’t _wrong_. The piles of life sentences to Arkham Asylum agree with him. But there was always – and Alfred would roll his eyes at the pun – a method to the Joker’s madness. A through-line of thought that was, if not to a normal person reasonable, at least followed some twisted logic. __

____

“Song?” Bruce decides on and Dick waves away the question. 

____

“To the tune of the Brady Bunch,” Dick says with a roll of his eyes like he couldn’t believe _that_ was what Bruce decided to focus on. Bruce supposes he has a point. That hardly seems relevant. 

____

“Was there anything else?” Bruce presses, not liking the way Dick refuses to meet his eyes again. Dick gives another shrug. 

____

“Nothing else that made sense,” the boy mutters. Which means there _was_ something else. Bruce considers digging into the point but something in the tension of the boy’s shoulders has Bruce rising from his seat instead and turning toward the window. 

____

“He acted like he knew me,” Dick mumbles behind him and Bruce pauses to turn. Dick’s grip on the paper elephant has tightened and his delicate feet are now crushed between thumb and forefinger. “But I’ve never even seen him before.” Dick twists the feet now, so they are rolled paper stumps. 

____

“I will find him, Dick,” Bruce says, voice firm and absolute again and the smile that curls on Dick’s lips is softer now, almost sad. 

____

“Yeah, I’ve heard that before,” Dick says so quietly Bruce can just barely make out the words under the swish of his cape as he climbs out the window. 

____

Once he is gone, there is the soft sound of paper hitting plaster and then complete silence for the rest of the night. 

____

  


____

____

* * *

____

____

  


____

The dishwasher keeps making a strange clicking sound during the rinse cycle and for the life of him Alfred Pennyworth cannot figure out why. It starts subtly enough, the faintest pop, so quiet Alfred always thinks he imagines the noise at first, even though it is the fifth time he has run a load through, all with the same result. Then, it picks up, in volume and frequency, until persistent clicking drives Alfred to stride toward the appliance, inches away from stopping the run, wasted water be damned, when the cycle shuts off, dishes steaming and warm and most of all clean. After suspicious inspection proved the clicking had no ill effects on the actual washing ability of the machine, Alfred had resigned himself to noting the noise at the bottom of his to-do list, determined to fix the issue when he had the time. 

____

Now, he was regretting that decision. 

____

Their usual repair technician was out of town with a family emergency until the following week and what had begun as a small annoyance was now driving Alfred mad. The blasted appliance was hardly necessary considering the few dishes created in the prior days, Bruce refusing to eat while he spent increasing amount of time in the Cave, new obsession predictably driving away his appetite. But the lack of use was just another thing that made the noise all the more noticeable on those rare occasions when enough dishes had accumulated to justify a run. 

____

This had not been an often occurrence in the previous three days. 

____

There are times when, for lack of a better word, Alfred’s charge becomes _obsessed_. One could argue he was always so; he spent the majority of his time in a Cave beneath the house or dressed in a Kevlar enforced bat suit and swung from the Gotham rooftops. But a certain amount of relativity has been introduced into Alfred’s life when Bruce returned from his six-year sojourn with an impossible mission and an immovable moral code. The amount of hours spent in an attempt to track a man who looked remarkably like the Joker, committing heinous crimes, creating impossible mysteries, was not normal, even by his skewed standard. And if Alfred didn’t know Bruce as well as he ought, he would have thought that the despicability of the crimes themselves were what was setting the younger man down the spiral he was now in. 

____

But Alfred did know Bruce. He raised him. And this was not the reason. 

____

That is why, after finally filling the dishwasher with a respectable amount of dirty dishes and starting the cycle, he heads down to the Cave as the moon rises on the horizon, French press filled with a dark roast Alfred has never learned to love. 

____

Bruce is, predictably, at the computer. 

____

“Are we planning on sleeping more than three hours tonight, sir?” Alfred says with an air of indignation that penetrates his voice. The judgmental tone, paired with caffeine to enable to the contrary causes Bruce to roll his eyes, well intentioned rebuke having little effect. 

____

“Thank you for the coffee, Alfred,” Bruce says and there is enough guilt in his voice, just the barest hint of it, that Alfred softens and pours a cup to hand to the younger man. 

____

“There is more in the press if you wish to test whether sleep deprivation may lead to a breakthrough in this case.” 

____

Alfred turns away to start inventory, a task he usually reserves for the long hours he spends in the dark, listening to the communicator in Bruce’s cowl that he hooks up to the main system when the younger man goes out on patrol. The monotonous work is usually calming enough to take the edge off particularly nerve-inducing nights, like nights that the Joker is on the loose. 

____

He needs the relief now though, as Bruce leans back tiredly in his chair and stares blankly at the screen in front of him. Patience is virtue yes, but it is also a weapon Alfred has learned to wield, and he waits. 

____

“There is something strange about this case, Alfred,” Bruce finally says simply. Alfred turns and cocks an eyebrow. 

____

“The Joker, locked in Arkham, commits an unspeakable crime without ever leaving his cell. Your conclusion: strange. Yes, Greatest Detective in the World indeed,” Alfred replies dryly. It earns him a wry smile. 

____

“There is something _more_ to this case,” Bruce revises. Alfred isn’t letting him have that either. 

____

“Most certainly,” Alfred says sternly. 

____

Bruce borders on frustration now. “I’m missing something,” he says, annoyance bubbling over into his demeanor. Alfred knows he needs another push. 

____

He sniffs. “That is hardly novel.” 

____

Bruce’s eyes flash impatiently now, and he opens his mouth quickly at the retort before closing it again. He glances at the screen in front of him and a full minute passes before he speaks again. 

____

“This is personal,” Bruce says at last, giving pause. “I just don’t know why yet.” 

____

Alfred considers this. Perhaps it should be enough the Joker killed two people, horribly, he might add. Perhaps it should be enough that he infected them with Joker venom and held blowtorches to their arms and legs. Perhaps it should be enough that, even after he put two bullets in their heads, he rigged the house to explode just upon Batman’s arrival, another little joke with a punchline the butler finds no humor in. 

____

But it is not enough. Alfred knows this because Bruce does. The butler’s eyes soften. 

____

“Don’t you?” he asks, pulling a clipboard from the cabinet by the medical bay and flipping through it, as if he means the query conversationally. Bruce is quiet for a long time before he speaks again. 

____

“He’s had to watch his parent’s die in front of him twice now,” Bruce whispers so quietly Alfred nearly misses it. His eyes flash up to Alfred’s and they harden in an instant. 

____

“He _can’t_ know though. There has to be some other reason,” Bruce shakes his head. 

____

“You have often wondered if he knew more than he was letting on,” Alfred points out, voice stern. Bruce’s jaw tightens. 

____

“If he knew that much why this?” Bruce asks rhetorically, hand gesturing to autopsy photos Alfred has to quickly look away from. He’s seen many things over his years, but that did not imply a desire. “Why not something . . . more accurate?” 

____

“You mean why not recreate it entirely?” Alfred clarifies and Bruce nods, slowly, own mind at work. 

____

“I suppose a couple shot in an alley doesn’t have the same,” Bruce’s mouth twists around the words, “dramatic flair,” he spits out. Even after all these years, Alfred stiffens. Bruce notices the movement and inclines his head in an apology that Alfred accepts with a softened look. “But this still doesn’t seem . . .” he trails off again, searching for words. “It isn’t the same,” he finally says. 

____

Alfred considers this. “Perhaps it is not about the parents?” he suggests slowly. Bruce glances up at that. 

____

“The boy?” Bruce voice is wary but Alfred nods with confidence. 

____

“You spoke with him today,” he prompts, and Bruce rolls his eyes. 

____

“Yes, your impatience on the matter did not go unnoticed,” Bruce says. _Good_ , Alfred thinks. Had Bruce put off the interview any longer he might have started to get worried. Or more worried. Alfred feels like he is always worried these days. 

____

He gives a thoughtful hum to prompt more. Bruce is silent for a while. 

____

“Do you know who Tony Zucco is?” Bruce asks and it is only years of theater that allows Alfred to mask the genuine surprise that threatens to spread across his expression. 

____

“Should I?” Alfred returns, voice demurred. Bruce looks thoughtfully at the file in front of him. 

____

“He was a small-time gangster, ran a nasty extortion scheme a few years ago. The GCPD were building a case but he got wind of the mounting evidence and went underground. Took a couple hundred grand with him.” 

____

Alfred frowns. “An unfortunate case of injustice then,” he says, still unsure of where this is going. Bruce flips through the file. 

____

“He would offer protection to local businesses near the tracks, approach them one day with the proposal and if they refused, thugs would mysteriously come in the night and, let’s say, show the businesses what they were missing out on.” Bruce’s voice has gone strangely flat. 

____

“Not an uncommon tactic,” Alfred points out gently. 

____

“Sometimes he would do the same to traveling shows that set up in the fairgrounds behind the station,” Bruce continues. Finally, the younger man meets the butler’s eyes. “Including the circus.” 

____

Ah. There it was. 

____

“Haly’s circus, I presume,” he says and Bruce nods. 

____

“Sabotaged the trapeze wires when they refused.” 

____

Comprehension finally dawns on Alfred. “The young Mister Grayson’s parents?” he says softly, and he doesn’t need the nod to know he is correct. “That is terrible indeed,” Alfred says after a moment. And he means the words broadly. Terrible tragedy. Terrible crime. Terrible injustice. 

____

Bruce shakes his head. “He was angry today,” he says. “When speaking with me,” he clarifies without necessity. 

____

“I can imagine,” Alfred responds dryly and Bruce’s head snaps over, suspicion on his face fading into understanding. Then, a certain hardness ripples over his expression, but no words. Alfred lets the silence stretch until he feels he must break it. 

____

“It is not a terrible thing to see yourself in this boy, Master Bruce. Not in the least if he knows it too.” Tragedy has no place in empathy. 

____

Bruce glances over at Alfred guiltily, like he is about to admit to a midnight snack that resulted in the refrigerator door being left open and the milk spoilt; like he has just bitten into a warm cookie and has discovered doubling the amount of sugar required in a recipe has not had the desired effect; like he has brought home a test he swore the night before he had studied for, hiding split knuckles behind his back. 

____

The admission comes with a hesitancy Alfred feels in unwarranted, but unsurprising. It comes after a silence that Alfred half expects to be the end of the conversation and is not disappointed that it isn’t. It comes without the subsequent disapproving frown or raised eyebrow that other infractions incurred. It is unlike the other guilted admissions, not in the least because Alfred does not expect to hear it. 

____

“I want to help him.” 

____

Upstairs, a steady clicking shuts off.

____

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates will start to come slowly as I buckle down for finals in the following weeks but I will try to keep them coming! I'm having a lot of fun writing this sort of morose universe, but there will be lighter moments too.  
> . . . Just probably not next chapter heh.


	4. The Warehouse

Jason isn’t sure what’s worse: the laughter or the pain, but both are pounding in his head with equal ferity. Breathing hurts. _Everything_ hurts, but there’s a wetness to his breath that Jason knows shouldn’t be there and it sends spikes of fear racing through his body. 

He knows his arm is broken, snapped in half when his forearm was thrown carelessly and instinctively in front of his face at the first downswing, not thinking about what rebar on ulna would do and just desperate to prevent rebar to skull. 

He had felt his right cheekbone crack on the next downswing, after the cry of pain and the cradling of the snapped arm close to his chest, he’d caught the next hit with his upper brow, just above his eye. His vision had exploded in white and for a second, he’d lost consciousness as he’d dropped to the ground, but only for a moment. The man in front of him seemed unwilling to grant him even that reprieve because all he’d done since was talk. 

And god, the talking? The talking was the worst part. 

“Oh, Robin,” the clown crows – and that’s about as much as Jason is willing to put together – that the man is a clown. And not in the ‘quit clowning around and give me back my lug wrench, Adam,’ but in the honest to god white face, red lips, ridiculous outfit clown. “This brings back so many memories. You. Me. A crowbar. A few pounds of C4. Just like old times!” A cackle of laughter sends shivers down Jason’s spine. 

He’s certain he has no idea who this freak is. No, he knows who this is – it isn’t something he’s willing to admit - but he doesn’t _know_ in the way the freak is implying. Jason’s pretty positive he would remember a psychotic clown if he’d met one before – although to be fair, his dad’s side of the family _was_ a little strange. Jason’s five seconds away from snapping that he’s doesn’t know this guy, but the clown just keeps talking, tossing the crowbar between his hands and strolling around him casually, like he was on a walk in the park. 

“I mean, I do love our time together, but I’m starting to think this is getting a bit tiresome. Not that I don’t love my work!” His voice picks up, like he honestly expects Jason to care about whether this guy enjoyed knocking the spit out of him. “It’s just,” a tired sigh. “A guy wants to see results. Fruits of his labor.” 

The clown pauses somewhere behind Jason, out of his blurry line of vision for a blessed second. “I mean, how many times do you gotta kill a kid until he stays dead?” 

Jason manages to push up with one hand and get his feet underneath him, eyeing the exit door. Suddenly, pain comes down on his left shoulder and he drops to the floor, forced to put his broken arm out to catch him. Jason hears a guttural cry echo in the warehouse that he recognizes as his own, the pain choking off the scream in his throat. Jason’s vision flashes white again and he reaches out with his good arm and pushes himself over onto his back, trying to relieve pressure on broken bones. The shaky sigh of relief stops short when the tears in Jason’s vision clear enough to see a red frown peering down at him. 

“It’s rather rude to leave in the middle of a conversation. Didn’t your mother teach you manners?” 

Jason’s vision sharpens with sudden clarity, eyes flashing in anger that must be evident on his face because the frown suddenly flips into a wide grin that gives way to another bone-chilling cackle. 

“That’s what I’m missing!” the clown crows throwing his hands dramatically in the air, flecks of Jason’s blood splattering across his face as he does. “Oh, I knew it just didn’t feel right,” the clown _tsks_ to himself, shaking his head. Jason cracks an eye open and the Joker lets the crowbar fall to his shoulder and he looks thoughtful. 

“I guess I could grab some blond broad off the street but,” he sighs remorsefully. “That just wouldn’t have quite the same punch as mommy dearest now would it?” His grin stretches wide. 

The anger in Jason falters slightly with confusion because for a second, Jason thought this man was talking about _his_ mom, and the ever-present ache of grief that he always holds close to his chest so easily gives way to ire but now, it stutters. But he couldn’t be, right? His mom was brunette. So, he couldn’t be. And if Jason needed anything else to convince him that this absolutely psychotic freak in front of him got the wrong person, this was it. 

Jason grabs onto the thought like a lifeline. He needs to tell the clown that. That he made a mistake. A derisive part of Jason’s brain that he hates snorts at the prospect. Like that would go over well. _Yes, please beat up some other eleven year in an abandoned warehouse mister and leave me to succumb to my wounds._

Still, he has to try. 

“I’m not – “ Jason’s voice is choked off with a cough – weak and nearly unintelligible to begin with – but he has to get this out – has to say it. Some other desperate and delusional part of Jason’s mind is certain that the admission will make this all _stop_. “I’m not who you think I am,” he finally spits. 

The clown erupts in more laughter. It’s the laughter that is such a giveaway to Jason. Sure, he doesn’t _know_ this freak, but he knows of him. Knows who he is and what that means. Has heard the stories, both the schoolyard legends and the first-hand accounts on the streets. It was always the stories the men in the auto shop told Jason that used to really get under his skin. The look in their eyes when they talked of laughter in the night. The scariest men Jason knew holding their breath for news reports when Arkham had a breakout. But right now? All Jason can think about are the legends. The school yard song the annoying girls with the pigtails would sing while skipping rope. Tales of razor teeth and red eyes and laughter that would never ever stop, laughter so hard it felt like torture. But he’s in denial still. Or does it count as denial if one is actively aware of it? 

Bile rises in Jason’s throat. 

“Come on, kid. Don’t go getting unoriginal now! Put some thought into it! I’m starting to think you don’t value our relationship,” the clown pouts. Jason rolls onto his side and pulls his knees closer to his chest when his eyes catch quick movement in the corner of his vision. His hip explodes in pain in the next second and Jason chokes off a strangled cry. 

Something cold presses against his thigh, caught between him and the ground. For a moment, through the pain, the sensation is the only thing he can feel, the one part of him that doesn’t hurt. 

“Stop,” he croaks out desperately, mind swirling. Suddenly, what he has in his pocket becomes vitally important, but he can’t get his head to focus on what it is. 

“Nope,” another swing of the crowbar comes down on his shoulder and Jason pushed himself onto his knees, hunching over, still close to the ground. “Try again.” 

“Please,” Jason tries, and he absolutely hates begging but there has to be something – anything he can say to make this stop. “I’ll – “ 

Jason head whips to the side with another strike of the crowbar, a sickening crack from his jaw sounding loudly in his ears. Jason moves to speak again but pain flairs around his mouth and he ends up spitting blood onto the floor. Fear was rapidly turning to anger inside Jason, like he had reached his maximum capacity for being scared and in an instant, it transformed into burning ire. The harsh edge of anger provides clarity to Jason’s spinning thoughts and he slips his good hand to his jean pocket, thumbing the cold metal object through the denim. 

Jason spits another glob of blood on the floor. Clenching his teeth, he speaks slowly, “if you don’t get the fuck away from me, I will skewer you to the floor and crack open your own pasty white skull with that crowbar.” 

There’s a sharp cackle of laughter that grows louder and then suddenly there is a breath is Jason’s ear, a hand clasping his shoulder. Jason can’t deny it anymore. 

“Atta, kid!” the Joker says, sadistic grin evident in his jaunty tone. The sound of movement behind him lets Jason prepare for the foot that steps into his line of vision in the next breath. 

“You know – “ and Jason doesn’t wait another moment. He slips his hand into his pocket, flipping the cold metal switchblade around in his fist and clicking it open. 

Then, he slams the knife downward and into the Joker’s foot. 

Silence. Jason stares at the wound, blood bubbling through black leather at an agonizingly slow pace. He glances up. 

The Joker is looking down at his own foot, red grin pulled down into a frown. 

“Well that wasn’t very nice,” Joker says, voice mild. Jason stares wide-eyed up at him, frozen still in place on the floor, almost in shock. The Joker is halted mid-swing, crowbar raised over his head, but the only movement is the steady drip of Jason’s blood onto the dusty warehouse floor. Suddenly, the Joker throws his head back and laughs. 

The cackling sends a jolt through Jason and he rolls over to the side, out from under the clown, wincing in pain. He needs to get out of here. Jason leaps to his feet, racing toward the door. Or he tries to. As soon as he puts weight on his left ankle, he collapses back onto the ground, the sharp slice of the crowbar swooshing through the air over his head, barely missing his skull as he drops to the floor. Jason’s mouth goes dry. 

He starts to crawl, wet breath seizing with every movement, but he can’t think about that now. He has to get out of reach of the Joker before gritting his teeth and pushing himself to his feet, more prepared for the pain this time. Tears spring to eyes as he hears that maniacal laughter behind him. 

Jason needs to get out of here. 

He races to the door. _Please, dear god, please,_ he yanks on it. 

Locked. 

“So, the little Jay brought a knife to a bird fight,” Joker says behind him, still sounding so damn amused and not at all like he had just been shishkabob’ed to the floor. “That’s cheating,” the clown pouts. Jason clenches his hand and brings his fist down on the door – hard. He feels ten again, bent over his mother’s body, screaming and yet not making a sound. He’s never asked for help – not since that day – but someone had to hear him – someone would hear him – 

“Don’t you know kid?” Joker sounds closer now and Jason’s breath hitches. _Scream, yell –_ Jason can barely breath. “Cheaters never win.” And a slice of the air is the only warning Jason gets before something hard and metal slams into his back, shoving his against the door, breath knocked out of him. 

Jason glances back – the crowbar – the Joker threw it at him – now lays at Jason’s feet and the Joker reaches down and pulls the knife from his foot. 

Jason liked that knife. 

He has to get out of here. He needs to run. _God_ , he needs – his eyes fall on the crowbar. He needs to open this damn door. 

Jason’s shaky hands dart out and close around the warm metal, slick with blood – his blood. Gritting his teeth, Jason forces himself to stand and shoves the crowbar between the slits of the door. 

_All the security of a prick taking a dump in a public restroom._

The lock pops free. 

Jason yanks on the door, stumbling out through it and onto the street. The cool Gotham night air hits him, yanking his breath out of his lungs. Gotham feels thick around him and Jason feels his feet stumbling forward, and it’s all he can do to keep up with them, to not let them give way beneath him. The ground feels unsteady, the thick murky air feels unsteady – maybe it is only Jason who is unsteady. The clown – Jason doesn’t know if he’s behind him anymore, but he feels more than sees himself stumble out into the street. 

“HELP!” He screams, as loud as he can. Or he thinks he does – he means to – his vision is swimming now and there is immense pressure between his ears. His whole body could be shaking or the whole world could be – the pain isn’t everywhere so much as it feels like it is _nowhere_ , and Jason struggles to think through the vast nothingness that coats the inside of his mind like molasses. He prays to whatever prick is in the sky looking down on this godforsaken scene that he is running – or at least moving away from that damn warehouse. 

“Help,” Jason tries again, and the voice is definitely in his head, but whether or not it is outside of it, Jason can’t be sure. The dusky murky gray of Jason’s vision is assaulted by yellow – by a light – and at this point that is more irritating than anything. Jason’s throat tightens, choking out desperate gasps. 

And his mom’s unmoving body is beneath him and this time it isn’t his body shaking but rather he is shaking her and her head lolls to the side and she isn’t answering him and he knows why but also, he has no fucking clue. 

_Help, help,_ and god, it’s so _stupid_. This is Gotham. 

Who in the hell was going to help him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm alive! So, life got crazy, but I'm not done with this story. I promise won't disappear for that long again, though? Probably. Most likely.


End file.
